"Can you forget it?"
"I can strive to do so. By forgetting, one means laying it aside. We remember chiefly those things which we try to remember."
"And you will not try to remember me—in the least? You will lay me aside—like an old garment? Because this—angel—has come across a scrawl which you were too careless either to burn or to lock up! You will tell yourself to forget me, as you would a servant that you had dismissed,—much more easily than you would a dog? Is that so?"
"I did not say that I could do it easily."
"You shall not do it at all. I will not be forgotten. Did you ever love me, sir?"
"Certainly I did. You know that I did."
"When? How long since? Have you ever sworn that you loved me since this—angel—has been your wife?" Looking back as well as he could, he rather thought that he never had sworn that he loved her in these latter days. She had often bidden him to do so; but as far as he could recollect at the moment, he had escaped the absolute utterance of the oath by some subterfuge. But doubtless he had done that which had been tantamount to swearing; and, at any rate, he could not now say that he had never sworn. "Now you come to tell me that it must all be forgotten! Was it she taught you that word?"
"If you upbraid me I will go away."
"Go, sir,—if you dare. You first betray me to your wife by your egregious folly, and then tell me that you will leave me because I have a word to say for myself. Oh, George, I expected more tenderness than that from you."
"There is no use in being tender. It can only produce misery and destruction."